Third-person erotica

When a woman is aroused by my words, when she is moved to respond to my requests, when she doesn’t judge me, but instead, fulfills me? I’m in heaven.

I’m not allowed to tell you her name, or who she is. But she wants what I want:

You ask what I want.

I want to close my eyes, to shut out the distractions and focus on the ghost-taste of you, of me. To savor the intimation of rawness at the top of my throat when I swallow. To feel the heat and tension in my groin from the mere memory of your cock, hot and pulsing wet and thick. Of the pull on the muscles of my cunt when I catch the rhythm of the dance; the not-quite-smoothness of your cock sliding in and out, like how a wave ripples on a pebbly beach. To relish the pain in my collarbone, along my neck, where your teeth on my skin held me quiet as the rhythm broke and each stroke came hard and discrete like a hammer blow. To relive the feel of your muscles working, clenching and releasing in your back, your ass; of your body pressing, enfolding me in its fervor; of your fast, striving breath against my temple; of your cock jumping and spurting in the warm greedy grasp of my cunt.